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As Worthington is sniffing out the room, Charles, relying on touch only, quickly pushes his clumsy landscape sketch underneath the pile of paper on the table.

"Come along, don't give us the reason to hurt you," says Worthington and then Charles sees another man, a taller one, just behind him.

Noticing his stupor, Worthington sighs and casually unfolds his jacket, revealing a holstered gun.

"I don't mind using it," and mad glint in his eyes says Charles that he is telling the truth.

His feet move as though bogged down in a morass. In the doorway, Worthington lays a hand right between Charles' shoulder blades and pushes him in the direction of the stairwell.

"Follow the big guy step in step. I'll be keeping an eye on you. If you are thinking — he can't shoot an innocent man in broad daylight and get away with it, — think again."

Charles doesn't care about a few people passing them, just as they don't care about him being escorted through the hall and out, down the winding lane. The nature of his predicament is simple: he doesn't think that his resistance would be fruitful, so he chooses to comply. And he is thinking, thinking hard where the hell Erik is and how they managed to find him. The latter is explainable: someone on campus saw him and reported it. The former isn't clear at all.

Funny, it's already afternoon, and it took him an enforced walk through the University Park to realize that. The sky has decided to pull the drapes, and the promise of fine day was only that. A mere flick.

Anxiety smashes into him, and smashes pretty hard, when they come up to the SUV smartly parked behind the corner, out of sight of curious eyes.

Behind him, Worthington gives a frustrated huff at Charles' unintentional step back.

"Here I thought I was asking nicely."

Suddenly, Worthington grabs him in the chokehold and presses some rough cloth to the lower part of his face. While Charles clutches hold of his forearm, or tries to, his mind is still processing why he can breathe and why he doesn't smell anything. To intensify his confusion Worthington whispers in his ear.

"Pretend you're out."

Pretending is easy, and he allows his body to sag and his eyes to close. Worthington doesn't let him slide down all the way to the ground, catches him, circling both arms around his chest, and it feels like they are playing one of these trust games, so popular among corporate gurus.

"Not the boot, Christ. Try explaining that to cordon," hisses Worthington harshly. "Open the back door."

"What cordon?"

"There might be. This shit's already out of my jurisdiction."

Charles strains his ears to let the sounds form a proper mental picture of what is going on, but he finds it somewhat difficult to be a great judge of direction.

He is pushed on the backseat, and he thumps down like a sack; thankfully, avoiding bumping his head. Having landed on his uncomfortably twisted arm, he nearly gives himself away.

"You didn't frisk him or cuff him," the other man reminds Worthington, as Charles works to bring his breathing back to normal.

"Fuck you," huffs Worthington and slams the door so hard that the residual bang sets Charles' teeth on edge.

" – no, screw him. Start the car," Worthington gets into front seat and his partner obeys.

"You should explain it to him."

"Sure, I will," the seatbelts slide in with swift clicks.

They turn on the music, and after about ten minutes of concentration on turns and traffic lights stops Charles gives up. He is made fairly weary and drunk by anticipating terror, which clouds his observation skills. He dares not peek at his captors, feeling that he might sabotage Worthington's efforts. Meanwhile, the road gets free of traffic lights and by the amount of twists and turns that jolt his body, Charles guesses that they must have left town. They drive on and on until Worthington speaks out.

"Alright, stop the car," his voice is raised above funk beats.

"Right here?"

"Yes, dumbass," he drawls, and Charles braces himself for a jerk.

The car does stop, but not a second later Charles hears something like a groan and then a gurgling sound, so he snaps his head up in time to glimpse the driver falling over the wheel. A splatter of blood on the beige panel is almost like an afterimage.

As the dying body continues to seize up, reliving through last paroxysms, Worthington turns to him and asks, casually, over the music beats.

"Come on, help me drag him out."

Charles sees him wiping a thin blade on the now dead man's jacket.

He scrambles for the door handle, looking around and about. They are on the road through woodlands, and, behind them, Charles recognizes the intersection he takes when he drives to the Grey Yard. The lonely, narrow patch of road seems to be holding his gaze, because looking up means facing more than he can bear.

"Hey, Xavier!"

Now Charles has to glance up.

Having already circled the car, Worthington refrained from saying anything else, but he looked at Charles pointedly enough that he understood what Worthington wanted him to do.

Steady, he tells himself. This day will soon be over.

Together, they drag the surprisingly heavy body out and into the shrubbery, about ten steps from the road, where some rustling leaves get torn from the branches and, after a gentle swirl, settle on the man's torso. Charles bends as though to cover his eyes, while his other hand slips in the bloodied pocket groping after the plastic budge. One chance look at the gaping throat, with pinkish edges of neatly sliced flesh and still oozing blood nearly undoes Charles again, but he, somehow, stifles the urge to gag as his fingers close over the phone. He pushes it up his coat sleeve with all precaution he can muster.

Worthington kicks the man's foot peeking out from the bushes and Charles throws some of that caution to wind.

"Where is detective Lehnsherr?" he asks the first thing troubling him.

"Lehnsherr? Dunno," Worthington shrugs absently, "Dukes had to make sure he didn't interfere, but I haven't heard from him since we went in. Come on, go and get back in the car."

"You killed Blake," he whispers, as it finally slots into place.

"You said Blake? To be polite, Professor, I have already forgotten about that fucker, so, please, don't remind me again. Shall we?"

Charles has a memory so small, that he forgot it even existed. The memory of shaking hands with Worthington.

"You overestimate the boundaries of my good will," with that Worthington pulls out a gun and points the muzzle at Charles' head.

"You're on something," states Charles quietly, not moving an inch. "You're completely unhinged."

"Like you weren't," he sneers. His face, which could have been handsome if not for certain crudeness, remains carefully impassive and his hand holding a gun absolutely doesn't shake. "I just happen to be very good at it. At killing people. But today I'm killing monsters, so I must be even better."

"If we met yesterday, I have to confess, I don't remember that," ventures Charles.

"Shit," he lowers the gun and curses.

"Warren, thank you for helping me. But — "

"I don't have time for buts. So, you don't remember anything?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Most people don't experience this side-effect after what you've been given," he turns thoughtful again, his expressions swinging back and forth with unhealthy frequency.

"I can recall, very vaguely, talking to some man in the shadowed room," Charles muses. "It seemed as if he tried certain techniques to manipulate my perceptions, which, I guess, he failed to do."

"Yeah, he does that, that fucking brain slug," Worthington sighs, "and, man, you've made him so angry, that I won't kill you point blank out of respect."

"Thanks," Charles drops sarcastically. "It's a pity that the only triumphant moment I've had in a while has faded."

Worthington suddenly bursts out laughing and then, as abruptly, he stops.

"I'll count to, say, eleven," and he cocks his gun. "One."

It's not overstatement to say that Charles has never run that fast in his life. Several times he barely misses the trees, he gets slapped by branches, he suspects he runs into quite a few spider webs, but he doesn't dare look back, because some animal, purely instinctual part of him knows that the man he's left behind is death.

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Perhaps, it is a bad idea to sit resting on the log next to the creek and look down at water, as the sight only ignites his thirst. The darkness is falling quicker than he anticipated. Charles checks the dead man's mobile again. It displays a quarter to five and a persistent lack of signal bars. He has got his fair share of things gone wrong, so, Charles has every right to hope that the black streak will be over very soon.

The whole framework of this cult is in progress of shaping inside his head, and he uses this mental exercise to distract himself from reality of sitting somewhere in the forest, waiting for nocturnal life forms to emerge.

Upon getting a faint indication that Worthington and Charles have met the day before and have come to some kind of mutual agreement, a lot becomes clear. For instance, if Charles, somehow, had got in trouble or was captured yesterday, he might have had a helping hand throughout his escapades. Worthington, he, well, in Charles' professional opinion, he was a danger to society and himself and whoever allowed him to work for police should be held accountable. Also, Worthington seemed to think that Charles knew what he was doing and why. Goodness, he could have spared a minute or two to tell an entire story, thinks Charles bitterly, staring at the running water.

With infinite gravity, he thinks about Jean. How did she get involved? Did they mistake her for his girlfriend as well? Yet, it may be that Jean didn't heed his warning to drop that self-proclaimed investigation, just like he didn't heed Erik's.

The mental reasoning, which he attempts to balance out, doesn't quite work. Okay, Worthington went and killed Blake at the very restaurant, where there was a staff party. Blake was meeting someone from the party or, maybe, was simply spying on the person in question. But the murder was personal, Charles wasn't wrong about that. It was as personal as the mad force driving Worthington today. No, he fails to connect the dots with these two.

Taking a mental step back, Charles considers what he knows.

There is a cult. There is at least one extremely gifted manipulator, who prefers luring away young girls for purposes yet unknown, but highly malicious. Said cult can boast creme de la crème, the best people of the town. Since they select their victims with care and precision, Charles dares assume that aside from obvious need to consume symbolic vitality, and thus establish control over death, the ritual itself bears the traces of dedication.

"Oh my, how could I be so blind?" asks Charles aloud as an idea comes to light.

That must be that blasted Town Day… a metaphorical harvest of youth. Yes, it fits!

He springs to his feet, and continues walking along the creek, mindful of tricky tripping roots.

"Why kill Blake? If they want the same thing, that makes no sense. No, that actually makes sense. Blake and Worthington, they both held, hold the grudge, which makes them hypothetical rivals. They're both from the privileged families, fine background and," he snaps this thread of thought and latches onto next. "Innovative drugs are part of these people's business? Money, then? It seems to me that Erik wasn't completely honest with me, after all."

Dreadfully pale, she holds her raised hand pointed to the right and Charles all but stumbles, exclamation of surprise dead on his lips.

Heart incredibly heavy, he looks at Jubilee in what he knows is the last time.

She continues pointing to the right, away from the stream. Is it where his purpose lies?

"Thank you," he says, and begins an uncomfortable trip through dried brushwood, bidding final farewell to his long-suffering coat and shoes.

Darkness doesn't come in bits. In one moment it just erupts throughout the woods and Charles turns on a phone flashlight. After a five minute walk, he comes right to a tall marking fence, stretching as far as he can see under star light. It is steel net wound between rather thick metal bars, running parallel to the ground. The fence is higher than he is by a foot or so.

When he checks signal bars, his heart skips a bit, because one bar is flashing on and off.

There is also a private property sign Charles studiously ignores when he climbs over the railing and lands on the other side of the fence.

As he comes up the hill, a large field stretches below his feet. His eyes fall on the dark mass of trees planted in a circle. Partly because he's curious, and partly because he's intimidated by the scenery, Charles proceeds in that direction with rapid steps. The trees appear to be ancient apple trees and they are truly mighty: their circumference alone is impressive. Indeed, Charles is no expert, but are apple trees that long lived?

The tree crowns rustling over his head are magnificent. Wind breathes down his collar, and its ghostly caress grants Charles a sense of meaning, produced and enhanced by serene clearing he is standing in the middle of. This placid island… on the very fringe of bucolic calm. The peace and quiet of the place tear a single inhuman sound from his throat, the only expression of sorrow he's capable of right now.

Respite, he decides, and sags down on the ground, because his feet refuse to obey anyway.

Whilst waiting till Erik answers his phone Charles is staring ahead, unseeing and unafraid of ghastly, gaunt shadows, reaching their talons to grab him.

"Hey, it's Charles," he breathes and hears Erik's voice and sirens wailing in the background, but no words. The contrast to quiet, which is shrouding him in the field, is really striking.

"Charles? Charles, say something. Can you talk?"

"Yes. Right. You okay?"

"Am I? Are you joking?"

"I suppose you mean 'yes'."

"Are you?"

"I'm fine."

He and Erik are on the same impulsive wavelength. It figures.

"Listen, Worthington is on a rampage," Charles feels like he is squeezing words out of himself when he describes what happened to him. "Also, I've got a very good hunch. I might have discovered a burial site."

"Where are you? Can you tell?"

"Somewhere in the fields. Erik, I don't have a clue," he admits sheepishly and tells Erik what he can see around. "And, while I was on the phone back in the staffroom… To facilitate the process, so to say, I started drawing automatically. I think I was there yesterday: the picture grew fairly distinct in my mind. I wish I knew what it means. Sorry, I might be distracting you — "

Sounds in the background disappear altogether — Erik must have come indoors.

"Come again? Which drawing? I found yours and had the locals find the house," utters Erik quickly.

"Great," those are mere bread crumbs in comparison to things troubling him the most at the moment. "Jean? Did you find her?"

"We will start looking immediately. Charles… can barely hear you…"

An unpleasant tone in his ear follows Erik's last words and Charles tries dialing the same number again. Once he gets to his feet and circles the clearing, signal disappears altogether, no matter what spot he tries. Luck, that was generous up to that moment, appears to have abandoned him.

Although, guided by the same absorbing feeling that led him there, he refuses to leave this place. Charles hasn't been here before, but he definitely had the same feeling as he is experiencing right now. Dread and astonishment, tangled like vile vipers. What a duo. Feelings he must trust, he reflects, for everything else, mostly Friday memories, is not salvageable: he has been slowly coming to terms with this realization.

After pocketing the phone, he tugs at the edge of the bandage, which, he discovers, is peeking out from under his sleeve, probably coming undone on its own. He pushes up his coat sleeve, then, rolls up his sweater. He is rather disgruntled with himself in a way he is sometimes disgruntled with a good student, who suddenly fails to catch up on a fairly average topic.

Under the circumstances, he should have considered that possibility.

Dried blood is a nuisance. With bandage discarded, Charles can hardly see anything, and he's having dangerous thoughts of scraping it away, which he doesn't do due to completely rational fear of getting the cuts open. Because he's probably getting them infected in any case, that is.

In poor light, the cuts look like rough, black smudges on his puffy skin. He almost definitely needs to have them tended to. The hurt reminds of itself in the same juncture of time. In a certain weird way, he relishes the presence of pain, which, along with thirst and exhaustion, is nothing but indication of life.

"I've gone a bit far with leaving notes on skin," grumbles Charles, narrowing his eyes at crude lines.

First letter seems to be M.

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Having pushed himself into walking up another hill, Charles exhaled heavily. A sense of accomplishment lends him a boost of adrenalin, which helps him dial Erik one more time and deal with waiting afterwards.

A helicopter catches him off guard. Though, Erik did promise to arrive quickly, Charles was expecting something less loud and flashy.

Whilst it's landing, Charles, in agitation, fights the urge to take cover. It would be useless — trees are way far behind. It's a testament to residual panic, nothing more.

Two men in black uniform, carrying a long container, and a woman in ordinary suit spill out of open doors and pass him without as much as a brief look in his direction. Erik is next to come out. He is wearing body armor and he is coming straight for Charles.

"Get in," he plants one hand on Charles' head, gestures to keep it low and tries to outcry propeller generated onslaught. "I must check the site! You'll be safe!"

"I hope you're right," shouts Charles in reply, and Erik claps him on the shoulder as if to finalize the deal.

When Charles grabs the door someone assists him from inside and he murmurs thanks before he realizes that the paramedic in a yellow vest has headphones on. She swiftly examines his eyes and takes his pulse, and then carefully cleans the cuts. While she's applying a new bandage Charles tilts up a small water bottle he was given. Liquid tastes heavenly in his dry mouth.

They land on the rooftop in no time, though, and she exits the helicopter together with Charles.

"Excuse me, could you, please, explain what is going on and where we are?"

Charles feels exactly like he felt upon waking up in Erik's house this morning: lost and overwhelmed.

"We're at the police station," she steps aside as another group marches towards helicopter. "Come down with me."

They are in the station building, indeed. As the roof door slams shut, she speaks again, quickly trotting down the stairs with Charles in tow.

"You are dehydrated and also you've got a minor fever. Take in small amounts of water, no coffee or tea. And bed rest, of course. Have you got headache?"

"Yes, some."

"I recommend a light snack. I was warned that your blood test showed abnormal range of concentrated metabolite, so if I were you, I would refrain from overloading your liver with painkillers, unless absolutely necessary."

"Thank you," hurries to say Charles just when she pushes the doors to the second floor and they continue walking along a narrow corridor.

"I'm sorry. Do you know what is going on?" he tries again.

"Something big. I'm not aware of the details, but even I know that Operations Division has temporarily taken over."

"They can do that?" Charles asks, incredulous.

"I was surprised too. Apparently, yes," she intercepts a gruff, middle-aged man in a smart suit, currently on the phone, walking the same corridor. "Excuse me, sir, I'm looking for someone named Summers. Combined Operations?"

"Who the hell are you?" he snaps, but then his eyes fall on Charles and he does a double take as if he recognizes him.

"Is it —?"

"Charles Xavier," Charles introduces himself. "The lady is looking for someone. Can you help us?"

"Straight ahead, then turn left. The second door on your right. You won't miss it."

After he walks away, picking up interrupted conversation, Charles pauses to mutter.

"Sorry for overtaking the dialogue."

"No harm done. I'm used to assholes. You have no idea how many I encounter in a day."

As they turn left, the buzz gets louder and they really can't miss it — doors wide open and quite a few people are talking at once. There are about ten desks in the room, and a young man at the closest to the exit quickly stands up when they peek in.

"I'm Alex Summers. You're probably looking for me."

"Your boss said you were to meet us on the roof," huffs the paramedic.

"I didn't expect you back so soon," protests Summers before he refocuses on Charles. "Sorry, sir, it's bedlam in here. Upper floors are under urgent maintenance. We are crammed in with other departments. And just in time for a major shit-storm to strike."

Charles gives him a small smile, because he can hardly speak or move anywhere else for that matter.

"We've got a forensic team at your house right now, so you can't go back there. And we haven't herded all bastards yet, so it's better for you to stay here. Come with me."

The paramedic disappears somewhere on the way as Summers leads Charles through the crowded room to the door hidden in the back.

People are staring. Some ask questions Summers answers to, whilst Charles' head is growing heavier and heavier.

The final door reveals a cramped office, which looks uninhabited. Bookcase is empty, but the desk is barricaded with piles upon piles of cardboard boxes. A sofa snuggles in the corner. On it, there's a blue folded blanket.

"You can lock the door from the inside if you want," Summers gives him a key. "On behalf of our department, I apologize for inconveniences. At least, no one should disturb you. Oh, I nearly forgot. Lehnsherr told me to get you a new phone. We will need the one you have as evidence."

When they exchange mobiles, Charles does lock the door behind Summers. This is more than just a simple precaution on his part: he needs to be in control of things happening around him. Even if this sense of control is as flimsy as the plywood door.

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